


They don't make cards for this sorta thing

by Vituperative_cupcakes



Category: Fargo (2014)
Genre: Gen, Humor, Mention of Character Death, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-26 23:21:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1706264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vituperative_cupcakes/pseuds/Vituperative_cupcakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Various characters react in the wake of episode 6.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They don't make cards for this sorta thing

**Author's Note:**

> I grieve with you, fellow Wrenchers! Hope this lightens the mood a bit.

Gus Grimly sat in the waiting room of the ER with a Ticonderoga pencil and a sheet of paper before him.

He wrote out _my deepest condolences_ and then scratched out _condolences_.

He penciled in _regrets._

He crossed it out.

He wrote _sorrow._

He crossed the entire phrase out.

He wrote _I didn't mean to_ and then rubbed it out so hard the eraser gummed up and smeared the paper.

The phrase _Sorry I shot you_ in various writing styles and wordings already littered the paper, all crossed out.

 

Lester hummed in the aisle of the drugstore. There was a _Congratulations_! card with a floral arrangement on the cover, and a _Thank You for the gift_ card with a monkey and a funny couplet on the inside.

He flexed his hand, now nearly pain-free. The last time he'd been in here had been for ointment.

Lester picked up a much more somber card that seemed perfect until he opened it and found it was full of wacky paper springs and one of those chip-tunes. He hastily closed it and stuffed it back in the rack.

He wanted something at least close to, even if it wasn't exactly _thank you for murdering my bully (PS can we have sex later?)_

He settled on a card that was blank inside and whistled his way to the register. He could always fill it in later.

 

The man sprawled in the hospital bed had no paper, so he wrote with his mind.

_Dear scumfuck_ , he began promisingly, but ran into a writer's block.

It wasn't that he was out of ideas, it was that he had too many to implement.

_I am gonna kill you so many times_ . 

No, too silly.

_Was it worth it?_

...No. he knew the answer to that one.

He thought of Numbers, out in the snow. They hadn't let him see the body. He had chosen to disbelieve the news until he could see it.

It was dusty in here.

He blotted his eyes on his hospital sleeve and thought up a lovely torture method involving three dogs, piano wire, duct tape and a blowtorch.

That made him smile.

Now, to compose the second line.

 

Bill Oswalt sat in his(formerly Vern's) office and scrawled with painful slowness on a card covered with pink floral designs.

_Dear Moll–_

_Sorry ya got shot_

_Best,_

_Bill_

He sat back with a self-satisfied nod.

 

Lorne sat in his car and composed a message.

_Dear_ ... he thought for a moment

_Deaf guy,_ he wrote

_You and your boss had better_ ...

No, no. Too Chicago. 

_I'm coming for you._

...No. there were too many ways that could be taken wrong.

He blew a sigh at the sinking sun.

_Hey there!_ He scrawled.

_Heard you took a bit of a turn. Oofta!_

_Sorry I had to kill your pal, but business is business._

_I'll be coming for your boss now, and probably to kill everyone you know._

_Sincerely,_

_Lorne_

Lorne reread what he wrote and crumpled the paper up, tossing it into the back seat. He started the car.

Some things are just better said in person.

 

 


End file.
